An Unsocial Socialist (A Political Satire): A Humorous Take on Socialism in Contemporary Victorian England From the Renowned Author of Mrs. Warren's Profession, ... and Cleopatra, Androcles And The Lion

"It is not damp. It is crumbling into dust with dryness." Anunnatural laugh, with which she concluded, intensified hisuneasiness.

He began a sentence, stopped, and to gain time to recoverhimself, placed his bicycle in the opposite ditch; a proceedingwhich she witnessed with impatience, as it indicated hisintention to stay and talk. She, however, was the first to speak;and she did so with a callousness that shocked him.

"Have you heard the news?"

"What news?"

"About Mr. Trefusis and Agatha. They are engaged."

"So Trefusis told me. I met him just now in the village. I wasvery glad to hear it."

"Of course."

"But I had a special reason for being glad."

"Indeed?"

"I was desperately afraid, before he told me the truth, that hehad other views--views that might have proved fatal to my dearesthopes."

Gertrude frowned at him, and the frown roused him to brave her.He lost his self-command, already shaken by her strange behavior."You know that I love you, Miss Lindsay," he said. "It may not bea perfect love, but, humanly speaking, it is a true one. I almosttold you so that day when we were in the billiard room together;and I did a very dishonorable thing the same evening. When youwere speaking to Trefusis in the avenue I was close to you, and Ilistened."

"Then you heard him," cried Gertrude vehemently. "You heard himswear that he was in earnest."

"Yes," said Erskine, trembling, "and I thought he meant inearnest in loving you. You can hardly blame me for that: I was inlove myself; and love is blind and jealous. I never hoped againuntil he told me that he was to be married to Miss Wylie. May Ispeak to you, now that I know I was mistaken, or that you havechanged your mind?"

"Or that he has changed his mind," said Gertrude scornfully.

Erskine, with a new anxiety for her sake, checked himself. Herdignity was dear to him, and he saw that her disappointment hadmade her reckless of it. "Do not say anything to me now, MissLindsay, lest--"

"What have I said? What have I to say?"

"Nothing, except on my own affairs. I love you dearly."

She made an impatient movement, as if that were a veryinsignificant matter.

"You believe me, I hope," he said, timidly.

Gertrude made an effort to recover her habitual ladylike reserve,but her energy failed before she had done more than raise herhead. She relapsed into her listless attitude, and made a faintgesture of intolerance.

"You cannot be quite indifferent to being loved," he said,becoming more nervous and more urgent. "Your existenceconstitutes all my happiness. I offer you my services anddevotion. I do not ask any reward." (He was now speaking veryquickly and almost inaudibly.) "You may accept my love withoutreturning it. I do not want--seek to make a bargain. If you needa friend you may be able to rely on me more confidently becauseyou know I love you."

"Oh, you think so," said Gertrude, interrupting him; "but youwill get over it. I am not the sort of person that men fall inlove with. You will soon change your mind."

"Not the sort! Oh, how little you know!" he said, becomingeloquent. "I have had plenty of time to change, but I am as fixedas ever. If you doubt, wait and try me. But do not be rough withme. You pain me more than you can imagine when you are hasty orindifferent. I am in earnest."

"Ha, ha! That is easily said."

"Not by me. I change in my judgment of other people according tomy humor, but I believe steadfastly in your goodness andbeauty--as if you were an angel. I am in earnest in my love foryou as I am in earnest for my own life, which can only beperfected by your aid and influence."

"You are greatly mistaken if you suppose that I am an angel."

"You are wrong to mistrust yourself; but it is what I owe to youand not what I expect from you that I try to express by speakingof you as an angel. I know that you are not an angel to yourself.But you are to me."

She sat stubbornly silent.

"I will not press you for an answer now. I am content that youknow my mind at last. Shall we return together?"

She looked round slowly at the hemlock, and from that to theriver. Then she took up her basket, rose, and prepared to go, asif under compulsion.

"Do you want any more hemlock?" he said. "If so, I will plucksome for you."

"I wish you would let me alone," she said, with sudden anger. Sheadded, a little ashamed of herself, "I have a headache."

"I am very sorry," he said, crestfallen.

"It is only that I do not wish to be spoken to. It hurts my headto listen."

He meekly took his bicycle from the ditch and wheeled it alongbeside her to the Beeches without another word. They went inthrough the conservatory, and parted in the dining-room. Beforeleaving him she said with some remorse, "I did not mean to berude, Mr. Erskine."

He flushed, murmured something, and attempted to kiss her hand.But she snatched it away and went out quickly. He was stung bythis repulse, and stood mortifying himself by thinking of ituntil he was disturbed by the entrance of a maid-servant.Learning from her that Sir Charles was in the billiard room, hejoined him there, and asked him carelessly if he had heard thenews.

"About Miss Wylie?" said Sir Charles. "Yes, I should think so. Ibelieve the whole country knows it, though they have not beenengaged three hours. Have you seen these?" And he pushed a coupleof newspapers across the table.

Erskine had to make several efforts before he could read. " Youwere a fool to sign that document," he said. "I told you so atthe time."

"I relied on the fellow being a gentleman," said Sir Charleswarmly. " I do not see that I was a fool. I see that he is a cad,and but for this business of Miss Wylie's I would let him know myopinion. Let me tell you, Chester, that he has played fast andloose with Miss Lindsay. There is a deuce of a row upstairs. Shehas just told Jane that she must go home at once; Miss Wyliedeclares that she will have nothing to do with Trefusis if MissLindsay has a prior claim to him, and Jane is annoyed at hisadmiring anybody except herself. It serves me right; my instinctwarned me against the fellow from the first." Just then luncheonwas announced. Gertrude did not come down. Agatha was silent andmoody. Jane tried to make Erskine describe his walk withGertrude, but he baffled her curiosity by omitting from hisaccount everything except its commonplaces.

"I think her conduct very strange," said Jane. "She insists ongoing to town by the four o'clock train. I consider that it's notpolite to me, although she always made a point of her perfectmanners. I never heard of such a thing!"

When they had risen from the table, they went together to thedrawing-room. They had hardly arrived there when Trefusis wasannounced, and he was in their presence before they had time toconceal the expression of consternation his name brought intotheir faces.

"I have come to say good-bye," he said. "I find that I must go totown by the four o'clock train to push my arrangements in person;the telegrams I have received breathe nothing but delay. Have youseen the 'Times'?"

"I have indeed," said Sir Charles, emphatically.

"You are in some other paper too, and will be in half-a-dozenmore in the course of the next fortnight. Men who have committedthemselves to an opinion are always in trouble with thenewspapers; some because they cannot get into them, othersbecause they cannot keep out. If you had put forward a thunderingrevolutionary manifesto, not a daily paper would have daredallude to it: there is no cowardice like Fleet Street cowardice!I must run off; I have much to do before I start, and it isgetting on for three. Good-bye, Lady Brandon, and everybody."

He shook Jane's hand, dealt nods to the rest rapidly, making nodistinction in favor of Agatha, and hurried away. They staredafter him for a moment and then Erskine ran out and wentdownstairs two steps at a time. Nevertheless he had to run as faras the avenue before he overtook his man.

"Trefusis," he said breathlessly, "you must not go by the fouro'clock train."

"Why not?"

"Miss Lindsay is going to town by it."

"So much the better, my dear boy; so much the better. You are notjealous of me now, are you?"

"Look here, Trefusis. I don't know and I don't ask what there hasbeen between you and Miss Lindsay, but your engagement has quiteupset her, and she is running away to London in consequence. Ifshe hears that you are going by the same train she will waituntil to-morrow, and I believe the delay would be verydisagreeable. Will you inflict that additional pain upon her?"

Trefusis, evidently concerned, looking doubtfully at Erskine, andpondered for a moment. "I think you are on a wrong scent aboutthis," he said. "My relations with Miss Lindsay were not of asentimental kind. Have you said anything to her--on your ownaccount, I mean?"

"I have spoken to her on both accounts, and I know from her ownlips that I am right."

Trefusis uttered a low whistle.

"It is not the first time I have had the evidence of my senses inthe matter," said Erskine significantly. " Pray think of itseriously, Trefusis. Forgive my telling you frankly that nothingbut your own utter want of feeling could excuse you for the wayin which you have acted towards her."

Erskine hesitated, showing by his manner that he thought Trefusishad no right to ask the question. "She says nothing," heanswered.

"Hm!" said Trefusis. "Well, you may rely on me as to the train.There is my hand upon it."

"Thank you," said Erskine fervently. They shook hands and parted,Trefusis walking away with a grin suggestive of anything but goodfaith.

CHAPTER XVII

Gertrude, unaware of the extent to which she had already betrayedher disappointment, believed that anxiety for her father'shealth, which she alleged as the motive of her sudden departure,was an excuse plausible enough to blind her friends to heroverpowering reluctance to speak to Agatha or endure herpresence; to her fierce shrinking from the sort of pity usuallyaccorded to a jilted woman; and, above all, to her dread ofmeeting Trefusis. She had for some time past thought of him as anupright and perfect man deeply interested in her. Yet,comparatively liberal as her education had been, she had no ideaof any interest of man in woman existing apart from a desire tomarry. He had, in his serious moments, striven to make hersensible of the baseness he saw in her worldliness, flatteringher by his apparent conviction--which she shared--that she wascapable of a higher life. Almost in the same breath, a strain ofgallantry which was incorrigible in him, and to which his humorand his tenderness to women whom he liked gave variety and charm,would supervene upon his seriousness with a rapidity which herfar less flexible temperament could not follow. Hence she,thinking him still in earnest when he had swerved into floridromance, had been dangerously misled. He had no conscientiousscruples in his love-making, because he was unaccustomed toconsider himself as likely to inspire love in women; and Gertrudedid not know that her beauty gave to an hour spent alone with hera transient charm which few men of imagination and address couldresist. She, who had lived in the marriage market since she hadleft school, looked upon love-making as the most serious businessof life. To him it was only a pleasant sort of trifling, enhancedby a dash of sadness in the reflection that it meant so little.

Of the ceremonies attending her departure, the one that cost hermost was the kiss she felt bound to offer Agatha. She had beenjealous of her at college, where she had esteemed herself thebetter bred of the two; but that opinion had hardly consoled herfor Agatha's superior quickness of wit, dexterity of hand,audacity, aptness of resource, capacity for forming or followingintricate associations of ideas, and consequent power to dazzleothers. Her jealousy of these qualities was now barbed by theknowledge that they were much nearer akin than her own to thoseof Trefusis. It mattered little to her how she appeared toherself in comparison with Agatha. But it mattered the wholeworld (she thought) that she must appear to Trefusis so slow,stiff, cold, and studied, and that she had no means to make himunderstand that she was not really so. For she would not admitthe justice of impressions made by what she did not intend to do,however habitually she did it. She had a theory that she was notherself, but what she would have liked to be. As to the onequality in which she had always felt superior to Agatha, andwhich she called " good breeding," Trefusis had so far destroyedher conceit in that, that she was beginning to doubt whether itwas not her cardinal defect.

She could not bring herself to utter a word as she embraced herschoolfellow; and Agatha was tongue-tied too. But there was muchremorseful tenderness in the feelings that choked them. Theirsilence would have been awkward but for the loquacity of Jane,who talked enough for all three. Sir Charles was without, in thetrap, waiting to drive Gertrude to the station. Erskineintercepted her in the hall as she passed out, told her that heshould be desolate when she was gone, and begged her to rememberhim, a simple petition which moved her a little, and caused herto note that his dark eyes had a pleading eloquence which she hadobserved before in the kangaroos at the Zoological Society'sgardens.

On the way to the train Sir Charles worried the horse in order tobe excused from conversation on the sore subject of his guest'ssudden departure. He had made a few remarks on the skittishnessof young ponies, and on the weather, and that was all until theyreached the station, a pretty building standing in the opencountry, with a view of the river from the platform. There weretwo flies waiting, two porters, a bookstall, and a refreshmentroom with a neglected beauty pining behind the bar. Sir Charleswaited in the booking office to purchase a ticket for Gertrude,who went through to the platform. The first person she saw therewas Trefusis, close beside her.

"I am going to town by this train, Gertrude," he said quickly."Let me take charge of you. I have something to say, for I hearthat some mischief has been made between us which must be stoppedat once. You--"

Just then Sir Charles came out, and stood amazed to see them inconversation.

"It happens that I am going by this train," said Trefusis. "Iwill see after Miss Lindsay."

"Miss Lindsay has her maid with her," said Sir Charles, almoststammering, and looking at Gertrude, whose expression wasinscrutable.

"We can get into the Pullman car," said Trefusis. "There we shallbe as private as in a corner of a crowded drawing-room. I maytravel with you, may I not?" he said, seeing Sir Charles'sdisturbed look, and turning to her for express permission.

She felt that to deny him would be to throw away her last chanceof happiness. Nevertheless she resolved to do it, though sheshould die of grief on the way to London. As she raised her headto forbid him the more emphatically, she met his gaze, which wasgrave and expectant. For an instant she lost her presence ofmind, and in that instant said, " Yes. I shall be very glad."

"Well, if that is the case," said Sir Charles, in the tone of onewhose sympathy had been alienated by an unpardonable outrage, "there can be no use in my waiting. I leave you in the hands ofMr. Trefusis. Good-bye, Miss Lindsay."

Gertrude winced. Unkindness from a man usually kind proved hardto bear at parting. She was offering him her hand in silence whenTrefusis said:

"Wait and see us off. If we chance to be killed on thejourney--which is always probable on an English railway--you willreproach yourself afterwards if you do not see the last of us.Here is the train; it will not delay you a minute. Tell Erskinethat you saw me here; that I have not forgotten my promise, andthat he may rely on me. Get in at this end, Miss Lindsay."

"My maid," said Gertrude hesitating; for she had not intended totravel so expensively. "She--"

"She comes with us to take care of me; I have tickets foreverybody," said Trefusis, handing the woman in.

"But--"

"Take your seats, please," said the guard. "Going by the train,sir?"

"Good-bye, Sir Charles. Give my love to Lady Brandon, and Agatha,and the dear children; and thanks so much for a very pleasant--"Here the train moved off, and Sir Charles, melting, smiled andwaved his hat until he caught sight of Trefusis looking back athim with a grin which seemed, under the circumstances, soSatanic, that he stopped as if petrified in the midst of hisgesticulations, and stood with his arm out like a semaphore.

The drive home restored him somewhat, but he wee still full ofhis surprise when he rejoined Agatha, his wife, and Erskine inthe drawing-room at the Beeches. The moment he entered, he saidwithout preface, "She has gone off with Trefusis."

Erskine, who had been reading, started up, clutching his book asif about to hurl it at someone, and cried, "Was he at the train?"

"Yes, and has gone to town by it."

"Then," said Erskine, flinging the book violently on the floor,"he is a scoundrel and a liar."

"What is the matter?" said Agatha rising, whilst Jane staredopen-mouthed at him.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Wylie, I forgot you. He pledged me hishonor that he would not go by that train. I will." He hurriedfrom the room. Sir Charles rushed after him, and overtook him atthe foot of the stairs.

"Where are you going? What do you want to do?"

"I will follow the train and catch it at the next station. I cando it on my bicycle."

"You must have mistaken him," said Sir Charles. "He told me totell you that he had not forgotten his promise, and that you mayrely on him."

"What is the matter?" said Agatha, coming down, followed by LadyBrandon.

"Miss Wylie," said Erskine, springing up, "he gave me his wordthat he would not go by that train when I told him Miss Lindsaywas going by it. He has broken his word and seized theopportunity I was mad and credulous enough to tell him of. If Ihad been in your place, Brandon, I would have strangled him orthrown him under the wheels sooner than let him go. He has shownhimself in this as in everything else, a cheat, a conspirator, aman of crooked ways, shifts, tricks, lying sophistries, heartlessselfishness, cruel cynicism--" He stopped to catch his breath,and Sir Charles interposed a remonstrance.

"You are exciting yourself about nothing, Chester. They are in aPullman, with her maid and plenty of people; and she expresslygave him leave to go with her. He asked her the question flatlybefore my face, and I must say I thought it a strange thing forher to consent to. However, she did consent, and of course I wasnot in a position to prevent him from going to London if hepleased. Don't let us have a scene, old man. It can't be helped."

"I am very sorry," said Erskine, hanging his head. "I did notmean to make a scene. I beg your pardon."

He went away to his room without another word. Sir Charlesfollowed and attempted to console him, but Erskine caught hishand, and asked to be left to himself. So Sir Charles returned tothe drawing-room, where his wife, at a loss for once, hardlyventured to remark that she had never heard of such a thing inher life.

Agatha kept silence. She had long ago come unconsciously to theconclusion that Trefusis and she were the only members of theparty at the Beeches who had much common-sense, and this made herslow to believe that he could be in the wrong and Erskine in theright in any misunderstanding between them. She had a slovenlyway of summing up as "asses" people whose habits of thoughtdiffered from hers. Of all varieties of man, the minor poetrealized her conception of the human ass most completely, andErskine, though a very nice fellow indeed, thoroughly good andgentlemanly, in her opinion, was yet a minor poet, and thereforea pronounced ass. Trefusis, on the contrary, was the last man ofher acquaintance whom she would have thought of as a very nicefellow or a virtuous gentleman; but he was not an a~s, althoughhe was obstinate in his Socialistic fads. She had indeedsuspected him of weakness almost asinine with respect toGertrude, but then all men were asses in their dealings withwomen, and since he had transferred his weakness to her ownaccount it no longer seemed to need justification. And now, asher concern for Erskine, whom she pitied, wore off, she began toresent Trefusis's journey with Gertrude as an attack on herrecently acquired monopoly of him. There was an air ofaristocratic pride about Gertrude which Agatha had formerlyenvied, and which she still feared Trefusis might mistake for anindex of dignity and refinement. Agatha did not believe that herresentment was the common feeling called jealousy, for she stilldeemed herself unique, but it gave her a sense of meanness thatdid not improve her spirits.

The dinner was dull. Lady Brandon spoke in an undertone, as ifsomeone lay dead in the next room. Erskine was depressed by theconsciousness of having lost his head and acted foolishly in theafternoon. Sir Charles did not pretend to ignore the suspensethey were all in pending intelligence of the journey to London;he ate and drank and said nothing. Agatha, disgusted with herselfand with Gertrude, and undecided whether to be disgusted withTrefusis or to trust him affectionately, followed the example ofher host. After dinner she accompanied him in a series of songsby Schubert. This proved an aggravation instead of a relief. SirCharles, excelling in the expression of melancholy, preferredsongs of that character; and as his musical ideas, like those ofmost Englishmen, were founded on what he had heard in church inhis childhood, his style was oppressively monotonous. Agatha tookthe first excuse that presented itself to leave the piano. SirCharles felt that his performance had been a failure, andremarked, after a cough or two, that he had caught a touch ofcold returning from the station. Erskine sat on a sofa with hishead drooping, and his palms joined and hanging downward betweenhis knees. Agatha stood at the window, looking at the late summerafterglow. Jane yawned, and presently broke the silence.

"You look exactly as you used at school, Agatha. I could almostfancy us back again in Number Six."

Agatha shook her head.

"Do I ever look like that--like myself, as I used to be?"

"Never," said Agatha emphatically, turning and surveying thefigure of which Miss Carpenter had been the unripe antecedent.

"But why?" said Jane querulously. "I don't see why I shouldn't. Iam not so changed."

"You have become an exceedingly fine woman, Jane," said Agathagravely, and then, without knowing why, turned her attentive gazeupon Sir Charles, who bore it uneasily, and left the room. Aminute later he returned with two buff envelopes in his hand.

"A telegram for you, Miss Wylie, and one for Chester." Erskinestarted up, white with vague fears. Agatha's color went, and cameagain with increased richness as she read:

"I have arrived safe and ridiculously happy. Read a thousandthings between the lines. I will write tomorrow. Good night."

"You may read it," said Agatha, handing it to Jane.

"Very pretty," said Jane. "A shilling's worth ofattention--exactly twenty words! He may well call himself aneconomist."

Suddenly a crowing laugh from Erskine caused them to turn andstare at him. "What nonsense!" he said, blushing. "What a fellowhe is! I don't attach the slightest importance to this."

Agatha took a corner of his telegram and pulled it gently.

"No, no," he said, holding it tightly. "It is too absurd. I don'tthink I ought--"

Agatha gave a decisive pull, and read the message aloud. It wasfrom Trefusis, thus:

"I forgive your thoughts since Brandon's return. Write herto-night, and follow your letter to receive an affirmative answerin person. I promised that you might rely on me. She loves you."

"I never heard of such a thing in my life," said Jane. "Never!"

"He is certainly a most unaccountable man," said Sir Charles.

"I am glad, for my own sake, that he is not so black as he ispainted," said Agatha. "You may believe every word of it, Mr.Erskine. Be sure to do as he tells you. He is quite certain to beright."

"Pooh!" said Erskine, crumpling the telegram and thrusting itinto his pocket as if it were not worth a second thought.Presently he slipped away, and did not reappear. When they wereabout to retire, Sir Charles asked a servant where he was.

"In the library, Sir Charles; writing."

They looked significantly at one another and went to bed withoutdisturbing him.

CHAPTER XVIII

When Gertrude found herself beside Trefusis in the Pullman, shewondered how she came to be travelling with him against herresolution, if not against her will. In the presence of two womenscrutinizing her as if they suspected her of being there with nogood purpose, a male passenger admiring her a little further off,her maid reading Trefusis's newspapers just out of earshot, anuninterested country gentleman looking glumly out of window, acity man preoccupied with the "Economist," and a polite lady whorefrained from staring but not from observing, she felt that shemust not make a scene; yet she knew he had not come there to holdan ordinary conversation. Her doubt did not last long. He beganpromptly, and went to the point at once.

"What do you think of this engagement of mine?"

This was more than she could bear calmly. "What is it to me?" shesaid indignantly. "I have nothing to do with it."

"Nothing! You are a cold friend to me then. I thought you one ofthe surest I possessed."

She moved as if about to look at him, but checked herself, closedher lips, and fixed her eyes on the vacant seat before her. Thereproach he deserved was beyond her power of expression.

"I cling to that conviction still, in spite of Miss Lindsay'sindifference to my affairs. But I confess I hardly know how tobring you into sympathy with me in this matter. In the firstplace, you have never been married, I have. In the next, you aremuch younger than I, in more respects than that of years. Verylikely half your ideas on the subject are derived from fictionsin which happy results are tacked on to conditions veryill-calculated to produce them--which in real life hardly ever doproduce them. If our friendship were a chapter in a novel, whatwould be the upshot of it? Why, I should marry you, or you breakyour heart at my treachery."

Gertrude moved her eyes as if she had some intention of taking toflight.

"But our relations being those of real life--far sweeter, afterall--I never dreamed of marrying you, having gained and enjoyedyour friendship without that eye to business which our nineteenthcentury keeps open even whilst it sleeps. You, being equallydisinterested in your regard for me, do not think of breakingyour heart, but you are, I suppose, a little hurt at myapparently meditating and resolving on such a serious step asmarriage with Agatha without confiding my intention to you. Andyou punish me by telling me that you have nothing to do with it--that it is nothing to you. But I never meditated the step, and sohad nothing to conceal from you. It was conceived and executed inless than a minute. Although my first marriage was a silly lovematch and a failure, I have always admitted to myself that Ishould marry again. A bachelor is a man who shirksresponsibilities and duties; I seek them, and consider it myduty, with my monstrous superfluity of means, not to let theindividualists outbreed me. Still, I was in no hurry, havingother things to occupy me, and being fond of my bachelor freedom,and doubtful sometimes whether I had any right to bring moreidlers into the world for the workers to feed. Then came theusual difficulty about the lady. I did not want a helpmeet; I canhelp myself. Nor did I expect to be loved devotedly, for the racehas not yet evolved a man lovable on thorough acquaintance; evenmy self-love is neither thorough nor constant. I wanted a genialpartner for domestic business, and Agatha struck me quitesuddenly as being the nearest approach to what I desired that Iwas likely to find in the marriage market, where it is extremelyhard to suit oneself, and where the likeliest bargains are apt tobe snapped up by others if one hesitates too long in the hope offinding something better. I admire Agatha's courage andcapability, and believe I shall be able to make her like me, andthat the attachment so begun may turn into as close a union as iseither healthy or necessary between two separate individuals. Imay mistake her character, for I do not know her as I know you,and have scarcely enough faith in her as yet to tell her suchthings as I have told you. Still, there is a consoling dash ofromance in the transaction. Agatha has charm. Do you not thinkso?"

Gertrude's emotion was gone. She replied with cool scorn, "Veryromantic indeed. She is very fortunate."

Trefusis half laughed, half sighed with relief to find her soself-possessed. "It sounds like--and indeed is--the selfishcalculation of a disilluded widower. You would not value such anoffer, or envy the recipient of it?"

"No," said Gertrude with quiet contempt.

"Yet there is some calculation behind every such offer. We marryto satisfy our needs, and the more reasonable our needs are, themore likely are we to get them satisfied. I see you are disgustedwith me; I feared as much. You are the sort of woman to admit noexcuse for my marriage except love--pure emotional love,blindfolding reason."

"I really do not concern myself--"

"Do not say so, Gertrude. I watch every step you take withanxiety; and I do not believe you are indifferent to theworthiness of my conduct. Believe me, love is an overratedpassion; it would be irremediably discredited but that youngpeople, and the romancers who live upon their follies, have aperpetual interest in rehabilitating it. No relation involvingdivided duties and continual intercourse between two people cansubsist permanently on love alone. Yet love is not to be despisedwhen it comes from a fine nature. There is a man who loves youexactly as you think I ought to love Agatha--and as I don't loveher."

Gertrude's emotion stirred again, and her color rose. "You haveno right to say these things now," she said.

"Why may I not plead the cause of another? I speak of Erskine."Her color vanished, and he continued, "I want you to marry him.When you are married you will understand me better, and ourfriendship, shaken just now, will be deepened; for I dare assureyou, now that you can no longer misunderstand me, that no livingwoman is dearer to me than you. So much for the inevitableselfish reason. Erskine is a poor man, and in his comfortablepoverty--save the mark--lies your salvation from the baseness ofmarrying for wealth and position; a baseness of which women ofyour class stand in constant peril. They court it; you must shunit. The man is honorable and loves you; he is young, healthy, andsuitable. What more do you think the world has to offer you?"

"Much more, I hope. Very much more."

"I fear that the names I give things are not romantic enough. Heis a poet. Perhaps he would be a hero if it were possible for aman to be a hero in this nineteenth century, which will beinfamous in history as a time when the greatest advances in thepower of man over nature only served to sharpen his greed andmake famine its avowed minister. Erskine is at least neither agambler nor a slave-driver at first hand; if he lives uponplundered labor he can no more help himself than I. Do not saythat you hope for much more; but tell me, if you can, what moreyou have any chance of getting? Mind, I do not ask what more youdesire; we all desire unutterable things. I ask you what more youcan obtain!"

"I have not found Mr. Erskine such a wonderful person as you seemto think him."

"He is only a man. Do you know anybody more wonderful?"

"Besides, my family might not approve."

"They most certainly will not. If you wish to please them, youmust sell yourself to some rich vampire of the factories or greatlandlord. If you give yourself away to a poor poet who loves you,their disgust will be unbounded. If a woman wishes to honor herfather and mother to their own satisfaction nowadays she mustdishonor herself."

"I do not understand why you should be so anxious for me to marrysomeone else?"

"Someone else?" said Trefusis, puzzled.

"I do not mean someone else," said Gertrude hastily, reddening."Why should I marry at all?"

"Why do any of us marry? Why do I marry? It is a function cravingfulfilment. If you do not marry betimes from choice, you will bedriven to do so later on by the importunity of your suitors andof your family, and by weariness of the suspense that precedes adefinite settlement of oneself. Marry generously. Do not throwyourself away or sell yourself; give yourself away. Erskine hasas much at stake as you; and yet he offers himself fearlessly."

Gertrude raised her head proudly.

"It is true," continued Trefusis, observing the gesture with someanger, " that he thinks more highly of you than you deserve; butyou, on the other hand, think too lowly of him. When you marryhim you must save him from a cruel disenchantment by raisingyourself to the level he fancies you have attained. This willcost you an effort, and the effort will do you good, whether itfail or succeed. As for him, he will find his just level in yourestimation if your thoughts reach high enough to comprehend himat that level."

Gertrude moved impatiently.

"What!" he said quickly. "Are my long-winded sacrifices to thegod of reason distasteful? I believe I am involuntarily makingthem so because I am jealous of the fellow after all.Nevertheless I am serious; I want you to get married; though Ishall always have a secret grudge against the man who marriesyou. Agatha will suspect me of treason if you don't. Erskine willbe a disappointed man if you don't. You will be moody, wretched,and--and unmarried if you don't."

Gertrude's cheeks flushed at the word jealous, and again at hismention of Agatha. "And if I do," she said bitterly, "what then?"

"If you do, Agatha's mind will be at ease, Erskine will be happy,and you! You will have sacrificed yourself, and will have thehappiness which follows that when it is worthily done."

"It is you who have sacrificed me," she said, casting away herreticence, and looking at him for the first time during theconversation.

"I know it," he said, leaning towards her and half whispering thewords. "Is not renunciation the beginning and the end of wisdom?I have sacrificed you rather than profane our friendship byasking you to share my whole life with me. You are unfit forthat, and I have committed myself to another union, and ambegging you to follow my example, lest we should tempt oneanother to a step which would soon prove to you how truly I tellyou that you are unfit. I have never allowed you to roam throughall the chambers of my consciousness, but I keep a sanctuarythere for you alone, and will keep it inviolate for you always.Not even Agatha shall have the key, she must be content with theother rooms--the drawing-room, the working-room, the dining-room,and so forth. They would not suit you; you would not like thefurniture or the guests; after a time you would not like themaster. Will you be content with the sanctuary?" Gertrude bither lip; tears came into her eyes. She looked imploringly at him.Had they been alone, she would have thrown herself into his armsand entreated him to disregard everything except their strongcleaving to one another.

"And will you keep a corner of your heart for me?"

She slowly gave him a painful look of acquiescence. "Will you bebrave, and sacrifice yourself to the poor man who loves you? Hewill save you from useless solitude, or from a worldlymarriage--I cannot bear to think of either as your fate."

"I do not care for Mr. Erskine," she said, hardly able to controlher voice; "but I will marry him if you wish it."

"I do wish it earnestly, Gertrude."

"Then, you have my promise," she said, again with somebitterness.

"But you will not forget me? Erskine will have all but that--atender recollection--nothing."

"Can I do more than I have just promised?"

"Perhaps so; but I am too selfish to be able to conceive anythingmore generous. Our renunciation will bind us to one another asour union could never have done."

They exchanged a long look. Then he took out his watch, and beganto speak of the length of their journey, now nearly at an end.When they arrived in London the first person they recognized onthe platform was Mr. Jansenius.

"Ah! you got my telegram, I see," said Trefusis. "Many thanks forcoming. Wait for me whilst I put this lady into a cab."

When the cab was engaged, and Gertrude, with her maid, stowedwithin, he whispered to her hurriedly:

"In spite of all, I have a leaden pain here" (indicating hisheart). "You have been brave, and I have been wise. Do not speakto me, but remember that we are friends always and deeply."

He touched her hand, and turned to the cabman, directing himwhither to drive. Gertrude shrank back into a corner of thevehicle as it departed. Then Trefusis, expanding his chest like aman just released from some cramping drudgery, rejoined Mr.Jansenius.

"There goes a true woman," he said. "I have been persuading herto take the very best step open to her. I began by talking sense,like a man of honor, and kept at it for half an hour, but shewould not listen to me. Then I talked romantic nonsense of thecheapest sort for five minutes, and she consented with tears inher eyes. Let us take this hansom. Hi! Belsize Avenue. Yes; yousometimes have to answer a woman according to her womanishness,just as you have to answer a fool according to his folly. Haveyou ever made up your mind, Jansenius, whether I am an unusuallyhonest man, or one of the worst products of the socialorganization I spend all my energies in assailing--an infernalscoundrel, in short?"

"Now pray do not be absurd," said Mr. Jansenius. "I wonder at aman of your ability behaving and speaking as you sometimes do."

"I hope a little insincerity, when meant to act as chloroform--tosave a woman from feeling a wound to her vanity--is excusable.By-the-bye, I must send a couple of telegrams from the firstpost-office we pass. Well, sir, I am going to marry Agatha, as Isent you word. There was only one other single man and one othervirgin down at Brandon Beeches, and they are as good as engaged.And so--

My Dear Sir: I find that my friends are not quite satisfied withthe account you have given of them in your clever novel entitled" An Unsocial Socialist." You already understand that I considerit my duty to communicate my whole history, without reserve, towhoever may desire to be guided or warned by my experience, andthat I have no sympathy whatever with the spirit in which one ofthe ladies concerned recently told you that her affairs were nobusiness of yours or of the people who read your books. When youasked my permission some years ago to make use of my story, I atonce said that you would be perfectly justified in giving it thefullest publicity whether I consented or not, provided only thatyou were careful not to falsify it for the sake of artisticeffect. Now, whilst cheerfully admitting that you have done yourbest to fulfil that condition, I cannot help feeling that, inpresenting the facts in the guise of fiction, you have, in spiteof yourself, shown them in a false light. Actions described innovels are judged by a romantic system of morals as fictitious asthe actions themselves. The traditional parts of this system are,as Cervantes tried to show, for the chief part, barbarous andobsolete; the modern additions are largely due to the novelreaders and writers of our own century--most of themhalf-educated women,rebelliously slavish, superstitious,sentimental, full of the intense egotism fostered by theirstruggle for personal liberty, and, outside their families, withabsolutely no social sentiment except love. Meanwhile, man,having fought and won his fight for this personal liberty, onlyto find himself a more abject slave than before, is turning withloathing from his egotist's dream of independence to thecollective interests of society, with the welfare of which he nowperceives his own happiness to be inextricably bound up. But manin this phase (would that all had reached it!) has not yetleisure to write or read novels. In noveldom woman still sets themoral standard, and to her the males, who are in full revoltagainst the acceptance of the infatuation of a pair of lovers asthe highest manifestation of the social instinct, and against therestriction of the affections within the narrow circle of bloodrelationship, and of the political sympathies within frontiers,are to her what she calls heartless brutes. That is exactly whatI have been called by readers of your novel; and that, indeed, isexactly what I am, judged by the fictitious and feminine standardof morality. Hence some critics have been able plausibly topretend to take the book as a satire on Socialism. It may, forwhat I know, have been so intended by you. Whether or no, I amsorry you made a novel of my story, for the effect has beenalmost as if you had misrepresented me from beginning to end.

At the same time, I acknowledge that you have stated the facts,on the whole, with scrupulous fairness. You have, indeed,flattered me very strongly by representing me as constantlythinking of and for other people, whereas the rest think ofthemselves alone, but on the other hand you have contradictorilycalled me "unsocial," which is certainly the last adjective Ishould have expected to find in the neighborhood of my name. Ideny, it is true, that what is now called "society " is societyin any real sense, and my best wish for it is that it maydissolve too rapidly to make it worth the while of those who are" not in society "to facilitate its dissolution by violentlypounding it into small pieces. But no reader of "An UnsocialSocialist " needs to be told how, by the exercise of a certainconsiderate tact (which on the outside, perhaps, seems theopposite of tact), I have contrived to maintain genial terms withmen and women of all classes, even those whose opinions andpolitical conduct seemed to me most dangerous.

However, I do not here propose to go fully into my own position,lest I should seem tedious, and be accused, not for the firsttime, of a propensity to lecture --a reproach which comesnaturally enough from persons whose conceptions are never toowide to be expressed within the limits of a sixpenny telegram. Ishall confine myself to correcting a few misapprehensions whichhave, I am told, arisen among readers who from inveterate habitcannot bring the persons and events of a novel into any relationwith the actual conditions of life.

In the first place, then, I desire to say that Mrs. Erskine isnot dead of a broken heart. Erskine and I and our wives are verymuch in and out at one another's houses; and I am therefore in aposition to declare that Mrs. Erskine, having escaped by hermarriage from the vile caste in which she was relatively poor andartificially unhappy and ill-conditioned, is now, as the prettywife of an art-critic, relatively rich, as well as pleasant,active, and in sound health. Her chief trouble, as far as I canjudge, is the impossibility of shaking off her distinguishedrelatives, who furtively quit their abject splendor to drop inupon her for dinner and a little genuine human society muchoftener than is convenient to poor Erskine. She has taken apatronizing fancy to her father, the Admiral, who accepts hercondescension gratefully as age brings more and more home to himthe futility of his social position. She has also, as might havebeen expected, become an extreme advocate of socialism; andindeed, being in a great hurry for the new order of things, lookson me as a lukewarm disciple because I do not propose tointerfere with the slowly grinding mill of Evolution, and effectthe change by one tremendous stroke from the united and awakenedpeople (for such she--vainly, alas!--believes the proletariatalready to be. As to my own marriage, some have askedsarcastically whether I ran away again or not; others, whether ithas been a success. These are foolish questions. My marriage hasturned out much as I expected it would. I find that my wife'sviews on the subject vary with the circumstances under which theyare expressed.

I have now to make one or two comments on the impressionsconveyed by the style of your narrative. Sufficient prominencehas not, in my opinion, been given to the extraordinary destinyof my father, the true hero of a nineteenth century romance. I,who have seen society reluctantly accepting works of genius fornothing from men of extraordinary gifts, and at the same timehelplessly paying my father millions, and submitting to monstrousmortgages of its future production, for a few directions as tothe most business-like way of manufacturing and selling cotton,cannot but wonder, as I prepare my income-tax returns, whethersociety was mad to sacrifice thus to him and to me. He was theman with power to buy, to build, to choose, to endow, to sit oncommittees and adjudicate upon designs, to make his own terms forplacing anything on a sound business footing. He was hated,envied, sneered at for his low origin, reproached for hisignorance, yet nothing would pay unless he liked or pretended tolike it. I look round at our buildings, our statues, ourpictures, our newspapers, our domestic interiors, our books, ourvehicles, our morals, our manners, our statutes, and ourreligion, and I see his hand everywhere, for they were all madeor modified to please him. Those which did not please him failedcommercially: he would not buy them, or sell them, or countenancethem; and except through him, as "master of the industrialsituation," nothing could be bought, or sold, or countenanced.The landlord could do nothing with his acres except let them tohim; the capitalist's hoard rotted and dwindled until it was lentto him; the worker's muscles and brain were impotent until soldto him. What king's son would not exchange with me--the son ofthe Great Employer--the Merchant Prince? No wonder they proposedto imprison me for treason when, by applying my inheritedbusiness talent, I put forward a plan for securing his fullservices to society for a few hundred a year. But pending theadoption of my plan, do not describe him contemptuously as avulgar tradesman. Industrial kingship, the only real kingship ofour century, was his by divine right of his turn for business;and I, his son, bid you respect the crown whose revenues Iinherit. If you don't, my friend, your book won't pay.

I hear, with some surprise, that the kindness of my conduct toHenrietta (my first wife, you recollect) has been called inquestion; why, I do not exactly know. Undoubtedly I should nothave married her, but it is waste of time to criticise thejudgment of a young man in love. Since I do not approve of theusual plan of neglecting and avoiding a spouse without ceasing tokeep up appearances, I cannot for the life of me see what else Icould have done than vanish when I found out my mistake. It isbut a short-sighted policy to wait for the mending of mattersthat are bound to get worse. The notion that her death was myfault is sheer unreason on the face of it; and I need noexculpation on that score; but I must disclaim the credit ofhaving borne her death like a philosopher. I ought to have doneso, but the truth is that I was greatly affected at the moment,and the proof of it is that I and Jansenius (the only otherperson who cared) behaved in a most unbecoming fashion, as meninvariably do when they are really upset. Perfect propriety at adeath is seldom achieved except by the undertaker, who has theadvantage of being free from emotion.

Your rigmarole (if you will excuse the word) about the tombstonegives quite a wrong idea of my attitude on that occasion. Istayed away from the funeral for reasons which are, I shouldthink, sufficiently obvious and natural, but which you somehowseem to have missed. Granted that my fancy for Hetty was only acloud of illusions, still I could not, within a few days of hersudden death, go in cold blood to take part in a grotesque andheathenish mummery over her coffin. I should have broken out andstrangled somebody. But on every other point I--weaklyenough--sacrificed my own feelings to those of Jansenius. I lethim have his funeral, though I object to funerals and to thepractice of sepulture. I consented to a monument, although thereis, to me, no more bitterly ridiculous outcome of human vanitythan the blocks raised to tell posterity that John Smith, or JaneJackson, late of this parish, was born, lived, and died worthenough money to pay a mason to distinguish their bones from thoseof the unrecorded millions. To gratify Jansenius I waived thisobjection, and only interfered to save him from being fleeced andfooled by an unnecessary West End middleman, who, as likely asnot, would have eventually employed the very man to whom I gavethe job. Even the epitaph was not mine. If I had had my way Ishould have written: "HENRIETTA JANSENIUS WAS BORN ON SUCH ADATE, MARRIED A MAN NAMED TREFUSIS, AND DIED ON SUCH ANOTHERDATE; AND NOW WHAT DOES IT MATTER WHETHER SHE DID OR NOT?" Thewhole notion conveyed in the book that I rode rough-shod overeverybody in the affair, and only consulted my own feelings, isthe very reverse of the truth.

As to the tomfoolery down at Brandon's, which ended in Erskineand myself marrying the young lady visitors there, I can onlycongratulate you on the determination with which you have strivento make something like a romance out of such very thin material.I cannot say that I remember it all exactly as you have describedit; my wife declares flatly there is not a word of truth in it asfar as she is concerned, and Mrs. Erskine steadily refuses toread the book.

On one point I must acknowledge that you have proved yourself amaster of the art of fiction. What Hetty and I said to oneanother that day when she came upon me in the shrubbery at AltonCollege was known only to us two. She never told it to anyone,and I soon forgot it. All due honor, therefore, to the ingenuitywith which you have filled the hiatus, and shown the state ofaffairs between us by a discourse on " surplus value," cribbedfrom an imperfect report of one of my public lectures, and fromthe pages of Karl Marx! If you were an economist I should condemnyou for confusing economic with ethical considerations, and foryour uncertainty as to the function which my father got his startby performing. But as you are only a novelist, I compliment youheartily on your clever little pasticcio, adding, however, thatas an account of what actually passed between myself and Hetty,it is the wildest romance ever penned. Wickens's boy was farnearer the mark.

In conclusion, allow me to express my regret that you can find nobetter employment for your talent than the writing of novels. Thefirst literary result of the foundation of our industrial systemupon the profits of piracy and slave-trading was Shakspere. It isour misfortune that the sordid misery and hopeless horror of hisview of man's destiny is still so appropriate to English societythat we even to-day regard him as not for an age, but for alltime. But the poetry of despair will not outlive despair itself.Your nineteenth century novelists are only the tail of Shakspere.Don't tie yourself to it: it is fast wriggling into oblivion.